by Lars Kepler
March 2009. That’s when the International Criminal Court in The Hague issued an arrest warrant for Sudanese president Omar al-Bashir for direct involvement in the extermination of three ethnic groups in Darfur. At that moment, all the usual supplies of ammunition from the rest of the world stopped. Sudan’s army still had their weapons—their machine guns and assault rifles—but they would be running low on, and soon be out of, ammunition. The strangled supply would strangle the militia in Darfur. Except these four—Carl Palmcrona, Pontius Salman, Raphael Guidi, and Agathe al-Haji—had chosen to put themselves above international law.
“What did you find out?” Axel asks as he stands up.
“What?” Joona is startled out of his thoughts.
“Could you determine the date of that meeting?”
“Yes.”
Axel tries to catch Joona’s eyes.
“And?” Axel persists.
“I have to go,” Joona says.
“Did they meet after the arrest warrant for al-Bashir? They can’t have! I have to know if that’s what they’ve done!”
Joona looks directly into Axel’s eyes. His eyes are calm and bright.
73
one last question
Saga Bauer lies on her stomach on the fluffy white rug. Her eyes are closed as Stefan slowly kisses her back. Her light hair spreads like a waterfall onto the floor. Stefan’s face feels warm as it moves across her skin.
Keep going, she thinks.
His lips are light, tickling brushstrokes between her shoulder blades. She forces herself to keep still and shudders from pleasure.
Carl Unander-Scharin’s erotic duet for cello and mezzo-soprano flows from the speakers of her music system. The voices of the woman and the cello cross rhythmically and repetitively like entwined trickles in a dark stream. Saga lies completely still, desire rising in her body. She is breathing through a half-open mouth and she licks her lips.
His hands glide over her waist, around her hips, and then effortlessly he lifts her buttocks.
No one I’ve ever met before has touched me so softly, Saga thinks as she smiles to herself.
She hears her own moan as she feels the touch of his tongue.
He carefully turns her body over. Impressions of stripes are left on her skin from the rug.
“Keep going,” she whispers.
“Or you’ll shoot me,” he says.
She nods and smiles openly. Wisps of Stefan’s black hair have curled around his face, and his narrow ponytail is hanging over one of her breasts.
“Come, come,” Saga whispers.
She pulls his face down to hers and kisses him and her tongue meets his, warm and wet.
He quickly wriggles out of his jeans and lays down naked over her. She lifts her legs and feels him push inside. She moans a long moan and then breathes more quickly. They hesitate for a moment to marvel at the feeling of being beyond nearness. Stefan pushes softly. His narrow hips move carefully. Saga runs her fingers over his shoulder blades, his back, his buttocks.
Then the telephone rings. Of course, her thought snaps out. From the heap of clothes on the sofa, her mobile phone sounds persistently with ZZ Top’s ‘Blue Jeans Blues.’ It is well buried beneath her white linen chemise, underwear, and jeans pulled inside out.
“Let it ring,” she whispers.
“It’s your work phone,” he says.
“Fuck it, it’s not important,” she mumbles and tries to hold him tight to her.
But he pulls out, gets to his knees, and searches through her jeans’ pockets while the phone nags insistently. Finally, he turns her jeans upside down and the phone falls out. It’s stopped ringing. Then a small ding announces there’s a message on the voicemail.
Twenty minutes later, Saga is running through the hallway of the police station, the tips of her hair still damp from her quick shower. Her body still vibrates, desirous and unsatisfied. Her underwear and jeans feel uncomfortable, and not quite right.
Anja Larsson’s plump face pokes up over her computer, questioning, as Saga runs to Joona’s office. He waits in the middle of the floor. His grey eyes give her a sharp glance and she feels a shudder of unease.
“Close the door,” he says grimly.
She shuts it immediately and turns back to him. She’s quietly panting.
“Axel Riessen remembers every single piece of music he’s ever heard. Every note from every instrument in any symphony orchestra.”
“And?”
“He knew immediately which piece the string quartet was playing. It was Béla Bartók’s Second String Quartet.”
“Okay, you were right. Now we know what they were playing, but we—”
“This photograph was taken in November 2009,” Joona says sharply.
“So those devils ignored the embargo. They were doing a deal for arms,” she says bitterly.
“Right.”
“And they planned that the ammunition was to be siphoned into Darfur,” she whispers.
Joona nods while the muscles in his jaw tighten. “Carl Palmcrona should never have been there. Not with Pontus Salman, not with anyone—”
“And here they are together, caught in a photograph,” Saga says triumphantly. “Toasting a deal with Raphael Guidi and al-Haji.”
“That’s right.” Joona meets Saga’s summer-blue eyes.
“They say the really big fish always get away,” Saga murmurs. “People have always said it … most people realise it … but it’s true. The big ones almost always go free pretty much.”
They silently gaze down at the photograph again. Four people in a private box. The champagne. The expressions on their faces. The musicians playing on Paganini’s instruments at the Alte Oper. “Now we’ve figured out the first riddle,” Saga says and takes a deep breath. “A dirty deal to get arms to Sudan.”
“Palmcrona was there. The money in his account must surely have come from bribes,” Joona says slowly. “But at the same time, Palmcrona did not authorise this deal. It would be impossible. He could never get it through—”
Joona is interrupted by the phone in his jacket. He answers, listens in silence, and then ends the call. He looks at Saga.
“Axel Riessen has figured out what’s going on,” Joona says. “He knows what the photograph means.”
74
a perfect plan
A lone boy made of iron, fifteen centimetres high, sits with his arms wrapped around his knees. The statue is located in the back garden of the Finnish church in Gamla Stan. Axel Riessen is three metres away, leaning on the ochre wall, eating noodles from a carton. He waves with his chopsticks as Joona and Saga walk through the gate.
“Tell us what you’ve figured out,” Joona says abruptly.
Axel nods, puts the carton of food down on the windowsill of the church, wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, and then takes time to shake hands with Joona and Saga.
“You said you understand what the photograph means,” Joona repeats.
Axel looks down, takes a deep breath, and then begins to speak. “It’s all about Kenya,” he says. “The four people in the box are celebrating an agreement on a huge shipment of ammunition to Kenya.”
He stops.
“Keep going,” Joona prompts.
“Kenya is buying 1.25 million units of licenced, manufactured 5.56?x?45 millimetre ammunition.”
“For automatic rifles,” Saga says.
“Supposedly an export to Kenya,” Axel says. “But they’ll never see it. It will be diverted to Sudan and the militia in Darfur. It suddenly all came to me. Agathe al-Haji is the buyer’s representative; therefore, it is for Sudan.”
“How does Kenya fit in?” Joona asks.
“These four in the box meet after the arrest warrant was issued. Right? We know because of the date this composition is being played. An embargo is on Sudan … but not on Kenya. And Kenya is nearby, located just to the south.”
“How can you be so sure?” Saga asks.
“Carl Palmcrona opted out of t
his tangle through suicide. This was his last job but he left it unfinished. He left it to me to carry out,” Axel says bitterly. “And I’ve promised to sign the export authorisation today.”
“So it’s the same business deal, just with the name of Sudan crossed out and Kenya put in,” Saga says.
“It’s watertight,” Axel says.
“Or it was before someone photographed the meeting,” Joona says drily.
“Before Palmcrona committed suicide, all the work was done. They believed he would sign the authorisation,” Axel tells them.
“And now they’re really uptight to find out he hadn’t done it.” Joona smiles.
“Everything’s left hanging,” Saga says.
“I was brought in quickly,” Axel says. “They practically forced a pen into my hand to make me sign the contract.”
“But?”
“I wanted to make my own decisions.”
“And you have.”
“Right.”
“And all the paperwork looked fine?” Saga asks.
“Yes … and I promised to sign and I would have, without a doubt, if I hadn’t seen that photograph and connected it with the Kenyan deal.”
They all stand quietly, contemplating the iron statue of the boy. It’s the smallest public artwork in Stockholm. Joona leans forward and pats the boy’s shiny head. The metal radiates warmth after a full day in the sun.
“They’re already loading the container ship in Gothenburg Harbour,” Axel says quietly.
“I’ve guessed as much,” Saga says. “But without export authorisation, then—”
“Then the ammunition cannot leave Sweden.”
“They expect you to sign today?” Joona asks. “Can you delay it somehow? We’ve got to keep on with our investigation and releasing that cargo might hinder it.”
“They’re not going to just sit around and wait.”
“Tell them that you’re still going through the paperwork,” Joona suggests.
“Well, I can do that, but it won’t be easy. The deal’s already delayed because of me, but I’ll give it a shot,” Axel says.
“Keep in mind your safety, too. Our investigation is important, but—”
Axel smiles and asks sceptically, “Do you think they’ll threaten me?”
Joona smiles back gravely. “As long as they want a signature from you, you’re not in danger. But if you block this, they’ll lose an incredible amount of money. Just imagine what it’s already taken to bribe people all the way from Sweden to Kenya.”
“I can’t delay the signature for ever. Salman’s been trying to reach me all day. These people know the field. You can’t deceive them too long.” Just then, Axel’s mobile phone rings.
He looks at the display and grimaces. “It’s Pontus Salman again—”
“Pick it up,” Joona says.
“All right,” Axel says, and takes the call. They can all hear the staccato voice on the other end.
“I couldn’t reach you,” Salman says accusingly. “You know the ship is already loaded and waiting. It costs money to keep it in the harbour. The ship’s owner has also tried to contact you. They haven’t got the authorisation form yet.”
“I am so sorry,” Axel says soothingly. He looks at Joona and Saga. “Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to take one last look at—”
“I’ve talked to the government officials and they said you were going to sign today.”
Axel blanks, his thoughts suddenly scattering. He’s tempted to just hang up. Instead, he clears his throat, apologises, and then he lies. “Something else came up that required my immediate attention. I had to put this aside for a moment—”
Axel can hear how false his voice sounds, and he had taken too long to answer. He was tempted again to simply tell the truth: that there would be no export authorisation because he now knows the truth about the illegal deal.
“We understood this would be completed today,” Salman says, not trying to hide his anger.
“You took a risk,” Axel says.
“What are you telling me?”
“Without my authorisation there can be no shipment—”
“But we have … excuse me?”
“You had permission to manufacture the ammunition and there’s been a positive preliminary decision. But that’s all.”
“You understand there’s a great deal at stake here,” Salman says pleadingly. “What can I tell the ship’s owner? Can you give us any idea at all about how long the delay will be? He needs to know how long he must stay in port. It’s purely a question of logistics.”
“I remain positive. But I still need to go through everything one last time. Then you’ll get my decision,” Axel says firmly.
75
the bait
Saga Bauer had been skipping for fifty minutes in the police station’s gym when a worried colleague comes up to her and asks how she’s doing. Her face is sweaty and serious, but her feet keep dancing as if unaware of the quickly passing skipping rope.
“You’re hard on yourself,” he says.
“Nope,” she replies, and keeps jumping.
Twenty-five minutes later, Joona comes down to the gym and sits on an incline bench next to a barbell.
“What a bunch of shit,” she says, and she keeps skipping. “They’re going to pump this ammunition into Darfur and we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“Well, at any rate, we know what they’re up to,” Joona replies calmly. “We know that they’re trying to go through Kenya and—”
“But what the hell can we do about it?” she asks as she jumps. “Arrest that bastard Pontus Salman? Contact Europol about Raphael Guidi?”
“We still have no proof.”
“This is a big thing, much bigger than anyone realised. We certainly didn’t want to have anything to do with something this huge,” she reasons while the skipping rope whirls around her and whacks the floor. “Carl Palmcrona is involved, Pontus Salman from Sweden … Raphael Guidi, he’s a bigwig … and someone in Kenya’s government, otherwise this whole deal wouldn’t work … and probably someone in Sweden’s government.”
“We probably won’t get everyone,” Joona says.
“The smartest thing would be to drop the case,” she says.
“So let’s drop it.”
She laughs at his joke as she keeps skipping with a serious expression.
Joona says thoughtfully, “Palmcrona had probably been taking bribes for years, but once he received Björn’s blackmail letter, he realised the party was over … so he called someone … probably Raphael … but during the conversation he realised that he was expendable … and he was even a problem after the discovery of the photograph. All the people investing in this deal wanted him gone. They were not about to lose their money and risk their situation because of him.”
“So then he kills himself.” Saga begins skipping even faster.
“He’s out of the picture, so that leaves the photograph and the blackmailer.”
“In comes the international hit man.” Saga is beginning to be out of breath.
Joona nods while she jumps with raised knees.
“If Viola had not been on the boat at the last minute, he would have killed Björn and Penelope and sunk the boat,” he says.
Saga does one last, fast burst and then stops.
“We would have …” she says panting. “We would have written it off as an accident. The hit man would have got the photograph, cleaned out all the computers, left the country without a trace.”
“Though I think that he’s not the kind to be afraid of being discovered. He’s practical,” Joona says. “It’s easier to solve the problem without getting the police involved, but solving the problem is what he’s all about … otherwise, he wouldn’t bother to burn the apartments. This draws attention. He’s just being thorough and he prioritises thoroughness above all.”
Saga steadies herself with her hands on her thighs. Sweat drops from her face.
“Of course,
we’d put the apartment fires and the boat accident together sooner or later,” she says. She straightens up.
“But then it would be too late,” he says. “The hit man’s job is to erase the evidence and eliminate the witnesses.”
“But now we have the photograph and Penelope,” Saga says with a smile. “That hit man hasn’t solved the problem.”
“Not yet …”
Saga gives a few random blows to the boxing bag hanging from the ceiling and then looks Joona over. “During my training, I saw a film of a bank robbery and how you rendered the suspect harmless with a broken pistol.”
“I was lucky,” Joona says.
“Right.”
He laughs and she comes up to him, circles him with fancy footwork and then stops. She reaches out with open hands and meets his eyes. She waves at him to come on, waggling her fingers. She’s wanting him to take her on for a round. He smiles as he understands her reference to Bruce Lee: the waving hand. He shakes his head but doesn’t break eye contact.
“I’ve seen how you move,” he says.
“Then you know,” she says shortly.
“You’re quick and you’ll get in the first blow, but after that—”
“I’m cooked,” she answers.
“It’s a good thought, but—”
She makes the same gesture again, a bit more impatiently.
“But you will come in much too hard,” he says, amused.
“No, I won’t,” she says.
“Try it and you’ll find out,” Joona says calmly.
She waves once more, but he doesn’t seem to care. He gets up and turns his back to her as he heads for the door. She goes straight for him to land a right hook. He bends his neck slightly and the blow sails over his head. As a smooth continuation, Joona spins around and draws his pistol while taking her down to the ground with a kick to the kneecap.
“I have to tell you something,” Saga says.
“That I was right, right?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” She glares at him as she gets up.
“If you head in too hard—”
